Power Differentials
by trufflemores
Summary: 5.09/7.09/3.09. What if the fight outside the Zor Els' newest residence between Oliver and Barry hadn't ended so soon?


**Author's Notes** : Hello, everybody! I haven't updated my ffnet page in a while, so these fics are long overdue. I hope you enjoy them! (If you want to stay up to date with my stories, I always upload them to AO3 first.)

Yellow light surges towards Barry.

With less than a tenth of a second to react, he relaxes his shoulders, unclenches his jaw, and takes the impact square in the chest. Rather than standing and shattering, he rolls with the blow and surges back to his feet, throwing a punch at the yellow light before it can dart away. His fist meets solid flesh, eliciting a soft grunt from his opponent. He drives home two more quick punches to the speedster's kidneys before twisting away from a glancing blow.

Inhaling calmly, he braces his abdomen for the blow he knows is coming. True to expectation, the speedster throws a series of sharp knifing jabs before slipping out of reach. Barry hunches inward, curling around the pain, and brings an elbow up in time to prevent the speedster from putting him into a headlock. Again, it meets firm flesh, and again, the speedster backs off.

They trade blows this way for some time, neither gaining or giving an inch. Barry feels his bruised torso throb with every new assault. His own body delivers as good as it gets, trained not to be predictable. Whenever that light surges too close, he throws an elbow or knee to deter it before its owner has even begun looping an arm around his shoulders. He drives forward, but he can't keep up with that inhuman speed, and so he falls back into a fighting stance, waiting patiently for another hit.

Without warning, Oliver comes to a halt. Seeing his opponent in full view makes something in Barry relax. "Had enough?" he rasps, aware that his own body is near exhaustion from the continuous cycle of fight-defend-repel. Unlike Barry, Oliver hasn't broken a sweat and looks scarcely worse for wear. Even in street clothes, his rock-hard Speed-enhanced muscles and bones prove poor punching targets.

An impassive expression rests immovably on his face. "I'm not the one looking a little blue around the edges."

Barry huffs, aware that he cannot strike first – it's lunacy to try to outrun _The Flash_ – but yearning to strike while Oliver's guard is conspicuously down, regardless. "What're you talking about?" he stalls. "I feel great." He shifts his weight, not quite pacing, not quite standing still. Two seconds. All he needs are two seconds to operate unimpeded. "I can do this all day."

" _I_ can," Oliver corrects. "You?" Barry feels the subtle shift in the air, the readiness, the tantalizing nature of the Speed Force about to act as Oliver alters his stance almost imperceptibly. "I'm giving you a chance to surrender," Oliver points out. "With grace."

Barry smiles wickedly. "Thank you," he says, drawing in a deep, calculated breath. "But I'm good."

He slings an arrow so fast it has left the bow before Oliver lurches sideways, too late. The arrow embeds itself in Oliver's left calf. He crashes to the ground, breathing harshly through his teeth.

Bow up and leveled at Oliver, restocked and ready to fire at the first sign of resistance, Barry mimics, "Surrender, Ollie?"

Without a word, Oliver yanks the arrow free, setting it aside and moving carefully back to his feet. Although he has no desire to put Oliver into the ground, Barry knows that inaction will cost him the match, so he lets the second arrow loose and watches it ground itself mere inches from Oliver's right foot.

Swaying almost drunkenly on his feet, reluctant to put any weight on the injured limb, Oliver seethes, "Gonna play that way, huh?"

"I can go all day," Barry reminds flatly, every muscle taut.

Oliver nods once to himself, holding himself still, letting the tension build between them. Barry cannot move, not until he does. Oliver's gaze never leaves the bow in Barry's hands, a third arrow taunting him. "Come on, Ollie," Barry encourages in a low voice. "Put me down or make your move. Either way, this is not going to end well for you."

Oliver doesn't reply. He surges forward abruptly, slipping beyond the cadence Barry has pinned down on him. He twists and the arrow zips harmlessly off into space. His fist connects with Barry's jaw in a starburst of pain and red light, and then he skids to a halt nearby as Barry's body hits the ground hard.

He doesn't speak, waiting, watching, as Barry twists a little, silent agony coursing through him at the shattered feeling along the left side of his jaw. He plants his hands and brings himself up to his knees. Before he can rise, there's a blur of movement and he's back on the ground fully, flattened by the hand between his shoulder-blades. The pain in his jaw is so intense it almost whites out Oliver's words. "I think you should stay down."

No amount of twisting or brute force can overcome the hand on his shoulders. Not with the Speed Force behind it. He'd have more success moving a block of concrete with his mind. "All right," he rasps, letting his body go limp, jaw throbbing in time with his heartbeat. "All right."

Oliver doesn't remove his hand. "Say it."

Rage surges through Barry's chest, but he pushes it down hard. Calm. He has to appear calm. "No."

"Barry."

He lies on the dirt, unmoving but for his ragged breaths, grateful for the interlude. He doesn't let himself relax and concede. It's not in his nature – there are no fights in the real world that he can win by simply surrendering. He has to fight to the bone or die. The impossibility of overpowering a speedster crosses his mind emphatically, but he shoulders the thought aside in favor of trusting his instincts.

 _This is not an unwinnable fight_.

He remembers what it was like to fight Thawne, his back driven against the concrete as a vibrating hand drove towards his chest. Conviction subdues raw pain, and he doesn't wait for the pressure on his back to change before making his move. Instead, he twists and kicks hard at Oliver's left knee.

Oliver flinches back, narrowly evading the blow. It's too little, too late: Barry rolls, breaking free, and stabs a short arrow from his quiver into Oliver's side. Oliver roars, an unexpected concession to the pain doubtless surging from the point of contact. He moves with such brutal swiftness that Barry doesn't even realize he's on his knees, neck trapped in an iron grip, until it's too late.

He twists and writhes, not out of pain but frustration, trying to throw off Oliver's hold. Oliver's right arm tightens around Barry's neck, trying to force him into a concession, but Barry doesn't give him the satisfaction. Even with Oliver kneeling on the backs of his legs and holding him firmly, he dares to believe in freedom, in victory, in _survival_.

His frantic movements – calculated jerks and pulls to test the strength of his bonds – finally push Oliver to impatience. The arm locks around his neck, cutting off his air. He reaches reflexively for Oliver's wrist, locking his fingers around it, knowing in his heart that he can only overpower the man behind it, but not his Speed.

 _Goddamn Speed Force_.

He still pulls until his own body trembles with it, determined not to concede to the supernatural. "Tap out," Oliver orders. There is no _or else_.

Barry's head spins, but he doesn't loosen his hold on Oliver's arm _One second of weakness_ , he thinks, even though his thoughts are beginning to drift to the real possibility of failure. _All I need is one second._

He tries to get an elbow around, to dig into the wound he knows must be there, but Oliver doesn't give him the opportunity. Black dots speckle his vision. He tugs at the arm but does not tap it, refusing to the last fiber of his being to admit defeat.

Wheezing for breath, he gives one last convulsive jerk, a last-ditch-effort to dislodge Oliver and his hold, before surrendering to darkness, and darkness alone.

* * *

He's lying in the grass when he comes to.

Every muscle aches, but Barry forces himself to lift up a little, exhaling unhappily at the chorus of complaints that vie relentlessly for his attention. Rattled, he draws himself to a seated position, staring quizzically at the farm in the near distance, the unfamiliar turf surrounding him. It takes a long second to realize what he already knows: _Kara. Earth-38_. He looks around, assessing his surroundings, and finds himself emphatically alone.

He still proceeds cautiously, standing on shaking legs, hungover. A powerful headache demands his attention, but it is nothing beside the throbbing pain in his jaw. Reaching up gingerly to assess the damage, he feels the edge. At least Oliver had the courtesy not to shatter his skull with the blow, Barry thinks acidly.

Then he sighs. He looks around reflexively for his bow and arrows. They're gone. The message is clear. _No more_.

He doesn't know if acceptance of the loss counts as surrender, but a wave of fatigue, of unwillingness to be knocked flat _again_ , overrides any impulse to seek revenge. He stumbles towards the house, using a hand on the rail to guide himself up the steps. In the main room, he hears voices. He feels shame wash over him at the thought of joining them and pads off instead in the opposite direction, retreating into the empty bedroom at the end of the hall.

Oliver is there, setting down a half-finished book and watching him with golden Speed-lit eyes that pin Barry to the doorway. There is a bandage wrapped around his left leg and right hand. Barry waits to feel vindication but feels only exhausted sorrow at the sight.

Following his gaze, Oliver unwraps his bandaged hand. Any trace of the wound is gone. Repeating the same action with his leg, he relaxes back against the headboard. He looks at Barry, a simple once-over, before the light in his eyes dims back to normal. If he notices, he doesn't mention it.

Barry says slowly, "I'm sorry." It hurts to speak. His jaw crackles when he stretches it. "I got caught up," he admits, rubbing the underside of his jaw gently.

"You should put some ice on that," Oliver instructs.

Barry looks at him despairingly. "Please be mad. I don't know how I'm going to start forgiving myself if you're not mad."

Oliver looks at him coolly, unreadable. "What would being mad at you accomplish?" he asks, a genuine question. "Hm?" When Barry can't fish a response from the air, Oliver nods, launches himself carefully off the bed, and says simply, "Don't move." He ambles off at a normal pace down the hall, footfalls heavy.

 _The Flash doesn't have to be silent_ , Barry muses darkly, wondering if he'll ever stop feeling the twisting, jealous feeling in his chest. He just wants that _power_ on _his_ side, not used against him. _Oliver wouldn't use it against you. Not if you didn't dare him to_.

In less than ten seconds – a long time for a speedster, a short time for an ordinary human – Oliver returns, holding up a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a hand towel. He passes it off to Barry, who brings it up to press against his jaw, wincing. "Thanks," he says incongruously.

Oliver steers him towards the side of the bed. Barry sits and grimaces as new pains in his chest ignite. "I kind of … forgot what it's like to not have Speed-healing," he admits, voice edged with pain.

"It's a perk," Oliver agrees, reaching up and effortlessly taking hold of the suit's zipper, tugging it down with practiced ease. It's centered, unlike Barry's, and it comes off easily. The light gray shirt Barry has on underneath it feels like flimsy protection against an oncoming blow, and he tenses, expecting one. Oliver doesn't deliver, merely guiding his arms out of the jacket before laying it across a chair. Barry doesn't flinch, knowing that resistance is pointless – he can't stop The Flash, and it tastes sour in his mouth, the truth that until he has his powers back he is _vulnerable_ to people like Oliver Queen.

 _You can climb that stupid ladder until your heart explodes … but you'll never be as fast as me_.

"You boys okay?"

The voice is so unexpected that Barry tenses, looking at the doorway. Kara has a shoulder propped against it, leg canted lazily outward. She looks relaxed, but Barry hears the concern in her voice. He keeps his gaze away from her, ashamed of the black and blue marks on his face, a clear sign of his failure. _It wasn't failure_.

Then _why does it feel like it?_

 _You're not Oliver Queen. You're …_

He lets the thought drift, unanswered. "Better than him" is wrong. "Better than _this_ " is closer to the truth.

"We're fine," he says in a dull voice, convincing no one.

Kara huffs softly. "Really? Because you don't look fine."

A spark catches fire, and anger ripples through Barry as he grits out, "How would you know?"

Confusion colors Kara's voice. "What do you mean?"

"How would you _know_? Just because I bruise and bleed doesn't mean I'm not _okay_." He sets the bag down in sudden frustration, hands in his hair. "I get it – you're both superheroes, you heal up before the bruises even form, I'm happy for you, but I'm also … so … _angry_. That I can't do this." His throat chokes up; his anger falters. "I don't know how to be powerless." A bitter laugh escapes him. "I don't know how to be _powerless_ anymore."

"You won't have to be," Oliver says, sitting in the chair, arms folded thoughtfully across his chest. "We're going to fix it."

"What if we don't, Ollie?" Barry asks, keeping his head down, afraid that he'll fucking _cry_ if he looks at either of them. _Stop it._

"Hey." Kara is right next to him. Unlike Oliver, who stands back and waits for him to react, Kara acts first, putting an arm around his shoulders. He is terrified that she can feel them tremble. Holding himself stiffly, braced to take a blow, he doesn't look at her. "Barry." He slides his hands to his eyes, covering his face. " _Barry_ ," she repeats softly, giving him a cajoling squeeze around the shoulders. "It's not all about powers."

He sighs, resisting the urge to dig in, to _fight_ tooth and nail for any victory he can claim. _You don't want to hurt them_. His jaw gives a traitorous throb, forcing him to address it; he reaches blindly for the ice and presses it gently against his face, not speaking. "They're a tool," Kara continues quietly. "But Alex – Alex is one of the most resilient, fight-to-the-finish people I have ever met and she's never had a drop of super-strength or -speed in her blood. James, Winn, Lois – they're _all_ powerless, and they're still part of the team."

"It's not always easy."

Oliver's voice draws both Barry and Kara's gazes to him. Arms folded, he radiates loose energy, legs akimbo, expression calm. "For years, I thought that there wasn't an opponent I couldn't outlast through … strength, training, intelligence. Tools. Weapons." Looking at the two of them, he adds dryly, "You weren't my disillusionment, but I've seen you grow stronger, smarter, over the years." Shrugging, he finishes, "The days of a fair fight against a metahuman are over. The survivors are stronger, smarter, too. They've had to be to make it this far."

Barry looks steadily at Oliver. Lowering the bag so he can speak properly, he says quietly, "You know we'd never hurt you, right?"

Oliver's gaze could melt lead, and the intensity of it surprises Barry. "Right?" he mimics, iron in his tone.

Kara straightens, bracing for an intervention. "Oliver—"

"Next time you're whammied, Barry," Oliver cuts in, "I will either stand down or die trying to subdue you, and the odds aren't exactly in my favor."

There's silence between them. Barry feels sick with the memory of the unbridled anger that drove his actions that night. It was the kind of ruthlessness that would kill first and grieve later. The cold fire in his veins now is different – stronger for its clarity, yet tinged with the inescapable bitterness that he is up against an opponent he cannot hope to beat. All he can do is hold out as long as possible.

Barry looks at Oliver, lounging almost insolently in his chair, completely at ease. He thinks about the dozen ways he could approach an attack, the weapons at hand and the obstacles, too. He thinks about the odds. He thinks about the time differentials – Oliver's ability to cover the ground in less time than it would take Barry to bunch his muscles and launch – and realizes that there is no way for him to win.

He exhales, and he knows Oliver sees it all – the hypotheticals, the fight, the inevitable outcome. He sees it because he _feels_ it. Oliver's helplessness is his own – and Oliver's anger is his own, too.

"You're wrong," he says abruptly.

Oliver narrows his eyes fractionally but says nothing.

"You'd never stand down," Barry clarifies. He lifts himself off the bed, but neither Oliver nor Kara move. "It's who you are," Barry continues. "You fight to the finish." And then, with deliberate nonchalance, he walks over, eases the Arrow coat from the back of the chair, and shrugs into it. "And right now we've got a fight on our hands." He zips it up and retrieves his quiver from the bedside, slinging it over one shoulder. "Let's go win it."

In a flash of yellow light, Oliver appears on his feet, dressed almost incongruously in Barry's suit. All he says is, "Okay, Barry."

* * *

For the second time in twenty-four hours, Barry finds himself in a headlock.

The grip is crushing, but Barry channels every ounce of Speed he possesses to keep Deegan from getting a lock on target. As long as there is room to breathe, he'll live. Deegan taunts Oliver, demanding he stand down or Barry dies. Instead, Oliver raises his bow unflinchingly, arrow aimed squarely at Deegan's face. Sweat evaporates from Barry's skin as he arm-wrestles desperately with _Superman,_ knowing that he can't win.

 _Not for long._

It would be easy to tell Oliver to fire. It's the only option available to Barry. The second Deegan gets a hold, it's over. Windpipe crushed in an instant, Barry wouldn't stand a chance. As it is, snapping his neck is merciful to their cause: Deegan is savoring this moment, this authority, this display of godlike strength.

Barry sees the fight blazing in Oliver's eyes and knows that he will never stand down. Even after Barry is dead, Oliver will keep fighting until the bitter end. Barry can't let that happen.

So he channels his own strength, conviction in his voice as he implores Oliver to not fight this battle he cannot win.

To his astonishment, relief, and despair, Oliver obliges him, lowering his bow.

* * *

Fate alone saves them. It's always fate that decides who gets to walk away.

* * *

 _Aftermath._

Oliver's daily life is as chaotic and unpredictable as Barry's own. He has little time for himself and even less time for indulgences with friends. Yet he still finds time to train him when Barry, wearing a Speed-dampening cuff, shows up at his house one night and asks him to.

It surprise Barry just how slow the fight seems without the element of Speed to enhance it. Punches land harder and bruise, but he also becomes more aware of his own inconsistencies next to Oliver's fluid, practiced strength, honing in on the way his body moves rather than the way the Speed Force wants it to move.

"Slow is steady," Oliver recites, throwing a punch in slow motion at Barry's stomach for him to catch and divert. "Steady is smooth." Winding back, Oliver aims low, arcing up towards Barry's kidney; Barry arches his back, evading the motion. "Smooth is fast." Again, and again, and again, the same relentless tide of stop-motion blows.

Obediently, Barry catches and diverts them, parries and arches, pushes back and rolls with each one. It is only when they are moving almost too fast for an onlooker to see that Barry realizes just how much strength is involved in each movement, how much coordination and stamina is required for hand-to-hand combat. He feels sweat beading his forehead and exhaustion beginning to shake in his limbs, but he pushes on, and pushes the feelings aside until they no longer matter.

Oliver invites Barry to knock him down, and Barry tries, but every time he comes close Oliver is right there. Barry shifts his an inch, and Oliver knows where to be before he's finished half of the motion. There is an ease to his concentration that reminds Barry of meditation, an unbroken steadiness that flows with the battle like it was planned. At last, Barry lashes out not with his hand but his knee, bringing it up suddenly.

Oliver catches it, too, and holds on for a moment, unbalancing Barry, before releasing. "Good," he says. "Never become too predictable."

Then he's back on the offensive, and even though he moves slowly, the combination of hands and feet, elbows and knees keeps Barry on edge, circling the mockup fighting ring and taking the brunt of a blow more than once. It's a satisfying kind of pain, the same burn that he gets after a hard run, and he chases the limits of his own human body alongside Oliver's tireless teachings.

"Training with dummies only gets you so far," Oliver continues, speaking calmly. Barry hunches over, resting for a moment, hands on knees. "They lack tension and release, things you can use against your opponent. Flesh is soft. Joints move. Bones break." He grasps the nape of Barry's neck, and Barry goes still, sensing the raw power underneath his fingers. "It takes brute force to snap someone's neck," he says quietly, releasing and settling his hand directly over the middle of Barry's lower back instead. "It only takes a fraction of that energy to render your opponent inert in other ways." He taps his loosely closed fist against one of Barry's kidneys, non-threatening but present. Then he steps back, adds simply, "We're done for tonight."

Barry nods, more grateful than he wants to voice – he _wanted_ this, needed this; only Oliver has the kind of training that he can hope to acquire – but still relieved to be done. He straightens, carefully slides the speed-dampening cuff off, and relishes the shiver of warmth that courses through him.

"You hungry?" Barry proffers, feeling light, limber, restored. "There's gotta be a burger joint in town still open."

A quiet expression passes Oliver's face. They've gone out for beers before, on several occasions, but there is something … special about meals, and Barry can see it in his eyes. Something sad, too. A story that won't be told anytime soon lurks in Oliver's soul, but when he speaks, his voice is steady: "There is."

They wolf down food, Barry careful to consume it only at a rate deemed acceptably fast before leaning back contentedly in his chair.

"Why are you training me?" Barry asks lightly, swishing his beer around in the bottle. He doesn't care for the taste, but he cares for Oliver, and the simple act of sharing a beer with him just makes sense in his world.

Oliver picks off a fry and chews deliberately, taking a haul from his own beer before responding. "I want you to have the best chance to win," he says simply. "When it's your fight. When I'm not there." His eyes seem almost to flash in the dim lighting, reflecting an unspoken sentiment: _Even when we're fighting_.

Barry cocks his head at him, absorbing the weight of that statement. It humbles him just how much trust Oliver has in him. Trust to give him the very last defense he has, to _teach_ it to Barry.

"Thank you," he says, and it's not enough, so he takes Oliver's hand and gives it a firm squeeze, letting the lightning-warmth pass between them. Oliver relaxes minutely. Barry smiles even as he releases him. "For the record," Barry adds, "I'm glad you got to feel it. The Speed Force."

There are a lot of things he could say, but all Oliver replies is, "Me too."

There is sorrow and promise and hope in his voice, gratitude, yet no anger. Barry resolves, silently, unconsciously, as deeply as he can to never hurt the man across from him again.

 _I will never fight you again to hurt you,_ he thinks, and means it sincerely.

If he lets out a whoop of joy the first time he puts Oliver on the mat, then it's only an emphatic reminder that he doesn't have to hurt Oliver to learn from him.


End file.
